Another Time, Another Place
by buffett-head
Summary: Dean&Jo. Two phone calls Dean makes to Jo. Set after Heart
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This has been eating at me for quite a while now; I just couldn't get it on paper. The story takes place after 2x17 (Heart) but before 2x18. Even though this is posted after 2x18 aired, I haven't seen it yet and I don't read spoilers so the story shouldn't spoil anyone else who hasn't seen 2x18. How does the movie disclaimer go? _Any similarity to actual events is coincidental. _It's the same with this story. It does, however, play on events up until 2x17, and especially from the episodes Born Under a Bad Sign and Heart.

**Disclaimer: **more than one reader has told me they're surprised to find out I'm a man, so now I feel like I need to state that up front: I'm a man. Nothing special here—I drink, I swear, I fight. I also just happen to write. I'm also experimenting a little with writing style and the use of past and present tenses.

**Inspiration: **I'm all about the violence and supernatural beings and great writing, but SN lacks a hot chick. Then we met Jo—problem solved. Apparently, her character's gotten a bit of a mixed review—some viewers and FanFiction writers don't like her all that much. They say she's a little naïve or pushy. That's cool, that's your opinion. I think she's a great character. She's open to so much growth, and I feel like Jo and Dean really have chemistry. Plus, the writers left that scene between Jo and Dean completely unfinished with that whole "I'll call you later" line. I'm sure that'll play a role in a future episode. I also found out that the actress who plays Jo, Alona Tal, came to America after serving in the Israeli army. And come on, nothing's more of a turn on than a beautiful girl who knows how to handle a weapon…

**Note: **This is unbeta-ed, not because I don't have a beta, but because I've been shirking my writing duties for so long that I'm embarrassed to send something to her that isn't related to the multi-chapter L/L that I am also writing. So, Robinpoppins, I'm sorry—I hope you'll forgive me. I swear, I'm writing, but this wouldn't leave me alone. This is a double-shot, so it is complete.

**To the writings… **

* * *

"**If the phone doesn't ring,  
You'll know that I'll be  
Out in the eye of the storm."  
'If the Phone Doesn't Ring It's Me,' Jimmy Buffett**

1.

Of course he didn't call. It had been three days since she had spoken with him. Jo knew—she _knew—_that he wouldn't call, but knowing that couldn't keep her from wishing that he would. Just to let her know that everything is fine. Men are so predictable…as long as Dean's in control—or at least feels like he's in control—he doesn't really consider that she was being put through the ringer too. But make Dean feel a little vulnerable—take away his control—and he'll need someone to help him through. And damn her, despite everything, she would want to be there for him.

It was late, and she was clearing tables in the dimly lit bar as she replayed their last conversation for the third time that hour. She kept coming back to the tone of Dean's voice. Jo had never heard that tone before, and she knew then how personal Dean's vendetta had become. It wasn't just about saving his brother, or sending the demon that had possessed Sam back to Hell. It wasn't even about stopping evil. It was about revenge. Payback, pure and simple. And it scared her to imagine what Dean would do to get it. No, that wasn't quite right; she was scared because she _didn't _know what he would do to get it. Because Jo didn't know much about revenge, not really. Oh, she knew about loss, and anger, and frustration. About grief, and about growing up in a broken family. And about hunting—not as much as Dean knew, of course, but enough for her to understand that it is less about glitz and glamour and more about long periods of tracking followed by short bursts of fear and violence. So she thought it was fair to say that though Dean was more experienced, she understood his emotions. Except when it came to revenge.

When her father died, or was killed—she wasn't quite sure how to phrase it after the Demon's revelation—on his last hunt, she remembers that in addition to the hurt and the pain, she felt a passion to destroy evil. She still felt it; it was part of what drove her to be a hunter. But it took many years for this general emotion to evolve into a parallel desire to destroy what had killed her father. What she felt was more along the lines of justice…She wanted justice for her father; she wanted that _thing_ to be punished for taking him away from her and her mother.

Dean…Dean didn't think in such broad terms, she realized. Whereas her reasons for hunting had funneled from a general calling to destroy evil down to a specific goal of seeking justice for her father, Dean's reasons stemmed from a specific need to hunt down and exact revenge on the demon that had devastated his family to a general hunt for anything supernatural. If he killed other creatures and sent demons and spirits to Hell along the way, so much the better. As long as he kept his main goal in sight: never stop until the demon that killed his mother and destroyed his family has paid for what it did. She wondered if he even made a distinction between supernatural and evil, or if it was all the same to him.

Her ring-tone went off at that moment, and she quickly set the pilsner glasses she was carrying on the bar and pulled her phone out of her back pocket. She wished her mom and Ash wouldn't call so late at night. Not that they talked often enough for that detail to be important. Jo had called once when she arrived and once eleven days later, when she had a job and a place to stay, thus eliminating the biggest arguments for coming back to the Roadhouse. And Ash? He had a degree from friggin' MIT, how could he not understand that she needed to finish working so she could sleep? But she knew the Winchester boys: Sam had to feel guilty after everything was over and he was back to himself. He probably wanted to call her mom to let her know that Jo was safe, and Dean was too scared of Ellen to disagree with Sam, because he knew that if Ellen ever found out about what happened from anyone other than the Winchester brothers she would skin them alive. But all that mattered was everything had to have turned out fine. If it hadn't…If it hadn't _then _Dean would have called. And now she was glad Dean didn't call because she would have had no idea how to help him.

She answered without looking at the caller I.D. with a tired "Hello?" and leaned against the bar. Her feet were killing her so she hopped up onto the bar and listened for a response. When no one answered she swung her feet in lazy circles and repeated herself. "Hello?" she asked, in a slightly aggravated tone.

There was a cough as someone cleared there throat and then spoke. "Yeah, hi… Hey." The male voice sounded a little preoccupied.

"Dean?" She thought aloud.

"Yeah," He said, and then went silent again.

Jo rolled her eyes to herself, how hard can a phone call get? "Where the hell are you? How did it go?"

"It went fine. Sammy's fine." There was a pause and she could hear rustling. "I'm not sure exactly where we are. We're on our way to investigate some strange things going on at a university."

"You guys don't know where you are?" she couldn't really believe that, and she felt a little irritated by Dean's casual attitude toward the situation.

"Hey, I'm the driver and Sam's the navigator. I just take whichever highway he tells me to." Dean defended himself.

"What highway are you on?"

"Well…we're not on the road now," Dean avoided her question and she pursed her lips at that. "Sammy had to stop for a nature break. Which is why I'm calling you—"

"You called me to tell me Sam had to go pee?" Jo broke in, anger beginning to take the place of irritation.

"No!" Dean said loudly. "That's why I _can_ call you right now."

"So you've been too busy until now, and there was no way you could've just found two minutes of time to tell me how it ended! To tell me that you got that thing out of Sam, and he's fine and you're fine and you two are off on another hunt without so much as a piss break until now? Even if you didn't want to talk to me you could've just left a damn voice message!" She was yelling now and she when she stopped the room seemed especially hushed, and she could hear Dean's breathing—slow and deep—on the other side. When he didn't speak for several seconds she spoke again, "Where are you?" She asked a second time, her voice lower but her anger still evident.

"I don't know, we were heading east. Right now we're outside of Bob's Gas 'n Grill. Did you know you could get a souvenir travel mug if you fill your tank and get a meal combo at the same time?"

He was obviously trying too hard, probably thrown off by her anger and just looking for a way to get out of this one-way conversation that was quickly becoming serious. Jo knew he was…uncomfortable at best with serious, and he sounded tired. So she let him change the topic. "No, I didn't." She said in a lighter tone. "What do they look like?"

"Oh, they're pretty cool. They're red and white, about the size of a five gallon Gatorade cooler, and have this really fat guy on the side, who I guess is supposed to be Bob…" Dean trailed off and she heard the Impala door open.

"That sounds…disgusting." Jo replied, trying to smile and hoping he could feel it in her voice.

"Yeah, well, be glad you don't have to drink from it, or eat this crap they call a cheeseburger." There was a shuffle and then his voice was more hurried. "Look, I've gotta go, we're about to leave." The Impala door slammed shut.

"Sam doesn't know you're talking to me, does he?" Jo realized with a smirk.

"Jo, we're about to leave."

"Why'd you keep it from him?" She asked, enjoying this little twist.

"Goodbye." Dean was clearly frustrated. Jo heard a door open again and Sam's voice saying something about French-fries.

"Save a cup for me." Jo teased him.

"I will not save a cup for you." Dean said.

"Call me later." She told him.

She heard Sam clearly now, "Who're you talking to, man?"

"None of your damn business." Dean snapped, and then spoke into the phone. "Yeah, I will. Bye." The connection cut off suddenly and she was alone again, sitting on the bar and swinging her feet. Thank God they were okay. He won't call—at least not for a while—but thank God they were okay.

* * *

"**Ah, the stories we could tell.  
And if it all blows up and goes to Hell.  
I wish that we could sit upon the bed in some motel,  
And just listen to the stories we could tell."  
'Stories We Could Tell,' Jimmy Buffett**

Dean turned the radio up a little and glanced down at the instrument panel of the Impala. He eased his foot off the accelerator when he realized he was doing eighty-five again—with that warrant out for him he had to watch his speed more than ever, and this late at night the only other people on the road would be drunks and cops. The gas gauge was tickling the eighth-of-a-tank line; he would have to stop soon. Sam was dozing in the passenger seat, and he found he was listening to Robert Johnson again. Damn…Dean's pretty sure that man did sell his soul to the Devil. He was one hell of a guitar player.

Dean wished he could be a good man. Wished he could be stronger—both physically and mentally. He wished he could be emotionally available. Wished he could let someone else help him, be there for him. Wished he could finally get used to silence and solitude instead of searching for something more and settling for a one-night-stand in its place. But if he could do that, then he wouldn't be a good man.

It was a paradox, and it frustrated Dean to no end. He was becoming increasingly morose and depressed, and he knew it. Sam watched him like a stray dog; leery of someone he doesn't really understand. Part of that was Sam's fault—he'd spent the better part of the last two months asking if Dean was okay, asking if he needed some help dealing with Dad's death, or telling him to just let it out. _Jesus!_ Dean thought with all those college classes Sam went to he would have at least heard of grieving in silence! How hard could it be to understand that he just flat out didn't want to talk about it? Talking and crying and hugging wouldn't bring Dad back. What he _could_ do was fix up the Impala. It didn't matter that the car was absolutely totaled. It was a project, and it was his way of being close to his dad, of grieving for his dad. When John gave it to Dean, he told him to take care of it and it would take care of him. So that's what Dean was doing: taking care of it. He channeled his energy and his emotions and worked with a ferocity that scared Sam and Bobby. He only lost his temper once, and no one was looking then, so he didn't think it really counted. And when he worked on the car, he was so incredibly focused, so dialed in, that things finally _were_ okay. Problems had solutions, logic mattered, and he got tangible results at the end of the day. He could see how far he'd come, and how far he had left to go. Life was simple, and he liked it.

Then life became complicated again. The demon was picking his family apart, and he could do nothing. It was sick and cruel and Dean felt his hate for the yellow-eyed bastard grow into a white-hot fire in the pit of his stomach. Mom was gone, Dad was gone, Sam was a target. Then he met Jo. And before he could even get used to the idea of having a home base, they were banished from the one place Dean thought they could take refuge at—the Roadhouse. Because of something his father had done. His father…Dean realized his father knew a lot of people who used to be close friends or 'like family once.' But now they wanted nothing to do with any Winchester, and that was making life hard on Sam and Dean. Bobby was a good man; he put the past behind him, realized that Dean wasn't John, and everyone started clean. But Ellen and Jo? Hell hath no fury…Ellen probably thought Dean was the Second Coming of John Winchester. And to be honest, Dean didn't help himself too much in that department, especially when they first met. He was an asshole to Ellen and was obvious about checking out Jo in front of her. But come on, Jo was baiting him; she swished her hips just a little and spoke in that playful, flirty tone, even when her mom was watching them. While they were waiting for Ash to try and track down anything on the demon Dean saw the perfect opening, and he was halfway through his set-up when he felt his smile fade and his sentence end, the words left dangling in between them like a flyer in the wind. She had studied him with a veiled look, wondering if he was going to try and pick himself back up after his stumble. He searched her eyes quickly but couldn't read her, and then he just didn't have it in him anymore. What was the friggin' point?

She never threw herself at him, but they flirted constantly, and he was beginning to feel the chemistry between them. Which reminded him, he needed to call her—it'd been three days since he'd left her with that promise. Not that he'd forgotten—the promise prickled at his mind during quiet times. Like now. He remembered a billboard sign for a Love's gas station a few miles back, they should be pretty close to it. He could fill the Impala and make the call at the same time; kill two birds with one stone.

When they pulled off the freeway Sam jolted awake. "Where're we?" he asked as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"Just stopping for gas, man." Dean answered. He was slowing down to turn into the parking lot when another sign a couple hundred feet ahead caught his attention. He read the message on the placard below it: _Open twenty-four hours. Truckers and pilgrims welcome_. If that's not a Jonah then nothing is—he and Sam certainly fit the latter description. Dean changed his mind and kept going.

"Dean? What's the deal?" Sam gestured toward the Love's behind them. "I thought we needed gas?"

"We do."

"Well, then why did we just go past the gas station?" His tone was confused.

"Cause we're stopping here," Dean said

Sam looked up at the sign for the place they had just pulled into. "Bob's Gas 'n Grill? Are you _serious_?"

"We can stop at a Love's any time. How many times can we stop here?"

"I was banking on 'never' but apparently that's not in the cards." Sam grumbled.

Dean stopped next to the first pump, got out, and put a credit card into the slot to fill the tank. Sam opened the door, stretched, and began walking toward the small building. "Hey, Sammy!" Dean called.

"What?" Sam turned around.

"Get me a cheeseburger if they got it—I'm starving."

"You want the combo? You'll get a free souvenir cup." Sam jeered.

"Sure, why the hell not?"

Sam shook his head. "Why not…" he trailed off as he reached the door.

He came back out a minute later with two huge travel mugs and gave one to Dean. "Here—it'll be a few minutes before the burgers are ready. They have to finish butchering the cow or something like that."

"Whatcha get me to drink?"

Sam grinned, "A Suicide."

"You know, a Dr. Pepper would've been just fine."

"But where's the fun in that?" Sam asked. "I've got to go to the bathroom, I'll bring the food when it's ready."

"Just make sure you wash your hands." Dean called after him, and Sam waved a hand in acknowledgement.

The gas pump shut off automatically, and he topped the tank off before replacing the cap. He leaned against the front of the Impala and took a sip from his cup. It was almost all Dr. Pepper, with just enough of something else to tweak his taste buds. That bastard did it on purpose. Dean had a few minutes of privacy so he figured he should make that call to Jo. He pushed her number on the speed dial and glanced around to make sure he was alone.

"Hello?" Jo answered shortly.

God, she was angry at him already. "Yeah, hi…Hey." Dean stopped looking around and tried to focus on why he was calling. Why _was_ he calling? Because he told her he would, and now he has, so his obligation is fulfilled. What more could he say? Apologize for leaving her behind? Try to explain that this hunt for the Yellow-eyed Demon has consumed him—that revenge has consumed his soul—and he doesn't want her caught in the cross-fire. Because if she saw what he has become it would frighten her, and he doesn't want to scare her away.

She was talking again, asking where they were and how everything went. He told her Sam was fine, and turned around to see if he could find a landmark, but the freeway was too far away and he hadn't been paying attention to the upcoming towns or route markers. But what did it matter? He knew where he was going... But apparently that wasn't going to fly with Jo.

"Hey, I'm the driver and Sam's the navigator. I just take whichever highway he tells me too." It was half-true; Sam did most of the navigating, but they discussed the route together so they both had an idea of where they were going.

"What highway are you on?" Jo asked in that tone of disapproval only women could use. Dean wondered if it was some special rite mothers passed on to their daughters, or if it was instinctive. The only thing John had passed on to him was the ability to hustle a pool game.

She was too smart for her own good—he was sure she only asked that question because she knew he couldn't answer it. Well, what the hell did she really want to hear then? What's going on? Why he's finally decided to call her. He tried to explain himself but Jo cut him off angrily. And when she finished chewing him out he couldn't think of a single reason that would justify his actions. Truth be told, he was hoping he'd get her voicemail tonight before she picked up. He realized she was right—he should've at least kept her in the loop. He stared quietly down the road, feeling guilty.

Jo asked where they were again. But she was still angry, and Dean couldn't help but feel that this was just a leading question. She wanted to know what was going on in his head, sit down and have a heart-to-heart or something like that right now. Well, now's definitely not the time or place. This obsession of his—he was big enough to admit that it was an obsession—had become his entire life. That's not something he could sum up in a few sentences over the phone. So he answered her immediate question and ignored the deeper meaning, and _thank God_, she didn't press him anymore. They fell into their familiar back-and-forth conversation until Dean heard bells tinkle and saw Sam coming out of Bob's with two bags and a Styrofoam cup. He pushed himself up from the car and moved to the driver's side, explaining to Jo that they needed to get back on the road.

But damn her, she caught on to him. And then she was making fun of him for it, teasing and laughing and he could feel her smile in her tone of voice. Sam opened the door to get in, but he was distracted as he tried to keep their dinner from spilling all over the Impala. "I got you some coffee, man." Sam told him. "You got enough ketchup for your fries?"

Dean nodded and tried to focus on Jo—she was speaking again. "Save a cup for me." She told him smugly.

The nerve of that woman! "I will not save a cup for you."

"Call me later."

Dean was about to answer when Sam asked, "Who're you talking to, man?"

Dean turned and saw his brother studying him with that College Boy smile, a handful of fries midway between his mouth and the open bag in his lap. Dean had the absurd thought that Sam could read his mind and would figure out it was Jo. "None of your damn business!" He barked and broke eye contact. He looked out the driver's side window and told Jo he would call her, then snapped his phone shut hard.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"Nothing, just keeping a promise." Dean said as he started the car.

"This isn't about the case is it?"

"No! Just let it go, dude. It was just some personal business."

"Okay, fine." Sam acquiesced, and then held the second bag out. "You want your dinner? The burger's already got everything on it."

"Yeah, thanks." Dean pulled the burger and his fries out, and then flattened the bag and set it on his lap, using it like a TV tray to hold his food. He ate a fry and was pleasantly surprised. "This isn't bad."

"Yeah," Sam laughed a little. "Good choice, I guess."

The engine roared as Dean merged onto the freeway. He popped the tape out of the stereo and ran his hand through his collection without looking until he came to where the tape should go. A place for everything…made it easier to find things. He searched for another tape, and smiled when he found it. He put it in and turned up the radio, and 'Misty Mountain Hop' came through the speakers. He remembered Jo telling him about hunters using Zeppelin IV to 'get in her pants,' and he couldn't help but feel as if she'd caught him, because he had been listening to Zeppelin earlier that day. Granted, it was Side Two of Zeppelin IV, but still…was that some sort of sign? "What a bunch of scumbags." Dean mumbled to himself.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Nothing—just ready to kill another one of these scumbags." Dean said.

* * *

Continued... 


	2. Chapter 2

2.

"**Now I've thrown something far,  
And it haunts me like a curse.  
I'm like a stone falling hard,  
And it's only getting worse."  
**'**Competition Smile,' The Gin Blossoms**

It's weeks later when the phone rings again. The hour is closer to dawn than it is to midnight, and she's felt sick all night. Not sick like she ate something that disagreed with her, but sick like something bad would happen soon—or had happened already. Her stomach churns and she feels the mix of anxiety and fear that leaves an almost sweet taste in her mouth, like she has eaten too many root beer floats and then been forced to run wind sprints in the summer heat. Her eyes have been closed since she went to bed, but she keeps thinking something bad has happened—it's definitely already happened, she decides. She just doesn't know whom it happened _to_. Jo knows whom to suspect; the Roadhouse is rough but her mom is more than capable of dealing with anything that could happen. And even though Ash has that demon-tracking software he can barely negotiate the table setup of the Roadhouse, so unless he pisses off a hunter he's never in too much danger. That leaves the Winchesters, and Dean to be more specific. Sam is too careful to get hurt.

She answers quickly. "Hello?" she speaks clearly into the phone, but again, no one answers her. This time however, she can hear crying—male crying—in the background, muffled by walls and the connection. And then there's that same slow, steady breathing she heard the last time _he _called. Jo puts it all together instantly and she asks worriedly, "Dean?" But there is no response, just the sound of breathing and crying. "Dean Winchester, you answer me _right now!_" She commands, her voice shaking a little.

"What the hell am I going to do?" the hollow voice asks.

Oh, shit. Her heart drops at the tone and she closes her eyes tightly for a moment. Something's got Sam. Jo flashes back to when Sam was possessed and told her about how her father died. She thinks suddenly, terrifyingly, that Dean is in the same situation and has to make the same choice. And she prays to God that if He has any mercy at all, He wouldn't do that to Dean. Because if Dean had to…had to kill Sam…she was sure that she would hear two gunshots—one for Sam and one for Dean. She could feel it in her bones.

"What happened?" she asks. Dean starts and stops so she asks again. "What happened, Dean?"

"He had to kill her." Dean says, and Jo is confused. But he must have realized that she doesn't know what he's talking about because he quickly explains himself. "We were hunting a werewolf, and Sam found a theory in Dad's book. He thought we could break the cycle by killing the wolf that bit the girl—you know, sever the blood line."

"That doesn't work." Jo speaks before she can stop herself.

"I know!" Dean says angrily. "But Sam wanted to try. And I let him, and the girl didn't turn the first night, but the second she did, and when she came to after it was over and she realized what she had done, she asked Sam to kill her. And I let him do it instead of doing it myself. So now what the hell am I going to do about Sammy? He's a God-damned mess!"

Dean spits out the last sentence bitterly, and Jo knows that Sam isn't the only one torn up. She knows that Dean has been hurting for years—she saw it in his eyes when he forced her to stay behind so he could find Sam alone. Since his dad died, he's let his darker self take over. Sam had called her once, and she heard fear in his voice. Sam was scared of his own brother. Not scared for, but scared _of_. That's when she knew Dean was in danger of losing himself. But now this call confirms a theory that Jo's had for a while: that Dean is a much more complex person than he lets on; that he struggles with his ethics as much as he struggles with the supernatural. She realizes that he doesn't have fun on the job anymore—Dean no longer gets any satisfaction from making the world a little safer, and his gallows humor has become all gallows and no humor. And what can she say to _that_?

The thought makes her remember the hunt for H. H. Holmes. Jo feels it was the first time she really saw who he was. His expressions and tones are permanent waves in her memory: the contrast between his devil-may-care attitude toward hunting in general and the ferocity with which he opposed her hunting. He said he was twisted. And the way he laughed through the deliberately understated phrase prickled her skin. So she bucked herself up and dared him to elaborate. And when he didn't, she began to understand how serious he was. Instead he bit his lip, shook his head, and tried another angle. He said she had options, and it was clear that what he really meant was that she still had part of her family left. Jo couldn't hold his eyes, could only glance up for split seconds and try to appear bored by his lecture. She decides to play it safe tonight. "Dean, you had to kill this girl. She wasn't herself anymore—"

"Oh, but she was!" Dean cuts her off. "She was herself, until the moon came out. And then she killed, but come morning she was scared and wondering what happened. She didn't have a clue about what she was doing. It made no sense."

"Dean, she was supernatural, she was possessed by evil. And you tried to find another way."

"I don't need a damn morality lesson." He bites out. "I know what needs to be done. I'm not worried about my conscience."

She holds her temper because she knows he's not mad at her. Jo feels her instincts stir: she wants to be there so he can find solace in her. She wants to help him through this grieving process that is so new and hard for him; to soothe his guilt and regret. Instead, she finds a comforting voice and says his name, "Dean…Dean, I know." He's quiet again, and his breathing sounds like a breeze rustling fields of wheat. He may not worry about his conscience, but she does. She wants to apologize for blaming John—and him by extension—for her father's death. He didn't need that. She wonders what is already weighing him down; what vow he made that has him so beaten and ready to give up.

His voice is softer when he speaks again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" He trails off before he can finish his explanation but she understands what he is saying. She hears him force out a frustrated sigh, and then he speaks again. "Things are f— er, really screwed up right now." She smiles when he catches himself to keep from swearing like a sailor around her. "I just wanted…I don't know what rumors are out there—what you've heard through the Roadhouse or your mom or…whoever. With Sammy being possessed and having those visions, and me being on just about everyone's hit list because of something either I did or Dad did…just don't believe everything you hear."

"Okay." She replies, because she thinks he needs to hear her say it.

"Good, good." He pauses again, and she can picture him scrunching his eyebrows as he tries to figure out what to do with Sam and what to say to her. "Call _me_ if you need to know something—or call Sam."

"I will." Jo promises. Dean doesn't answer and Jo realizes that it's quiet on his end of the connection. She can't hear anymore crying and wonders what has happened with Sam. "Dean, what's going on now?" she asks.

"Nothing."

"Where's Sam?" That question seems to rouse him, and she can hear shuffling and scraping coming over the phone.

"He's still here. He's just shaken up." Dean sounds in control again, a little more distant. "We've just got to get out of here, that's all."

"Where to?" Jo asks before she can stop herself.

"I don't know…we're in San Francisco right now. What the hell is good to see around here?"

"The Golden Gate Bridge." It's all Jo can come up with.

"Seen it." Dean's tone suggests that it wasn't a pleasant memory.

"The trolley system?" She wished she could help more.

"What am I, ninety years old?" Dean scoffs.

"You do _act_ like a bitter, surly killjoy." She shoots back.

"I'm never letting you pick my vacation." He says, and the tension lifts a little. "Maybe we'll go to Hollywood—I did tell Sam I wanted to see it. I don't know, Jo. But whatever happens, we'll probably drop off the map for a little while. Take a breather from all the crap that's going on and try to have a little fun."

"Oh yeah?" She asks.

"Yeah."

"Well, you two could use a break."

"I'm just tired of it all." The cryptic statement leaves her with a twisting, uneasy feeling in her gut.

"Dean," She begins, not sure how to phrase her thoughts. "I know you're a hell of a ways from Duluth, but I'm here—I'll do what I can for you."

"Well, if that's the case…" He trails off suggestively.

"Dean," she says in a no nonsense voice.

He stays quiet a moment, and when he does speak his voice lacks the playfulness she thought it would have, "I know."

"Dean…" she senses that he's becoming jittery, and realizes he wants to get off the phone. She can't really blame him for his aversion to opening up, but she wants to. He needs to let someone help him instead of swallowing his emotions. But Dean will never do that. She realizes that he actively cultivates his image: an intriguing alchemy of the cocky hell-raiser and the strong-silent type that compels her to at least try and comfort him. So she offers what she can. "Call me—just sometime in the next week or so. I won't tell anyone, but someone needs to know where you are just in case." It's lame, and transparent; but she can't think of anything else and she really wants to know he's all right.

"Sure," Dean answers. "Look, I've got to go—we've got to get out of here before the cops show."

"Bye." She says.

"I'll call sometime. Bye." He hangs up then.

She can feel the quiet again. Funny how conversations with him always ended that way: surrounded by silence until sounds normally un-noticed filled the vacuum. This time it was the rapid, mechanical ticking of her watch. The screen of her phone illuminates her nightstand, and she watches the second hand sweep along to its staccato rhythm until the light fades and she is once again covered by the near-velvet darkness of night. She stares into it, trying to find sleep.

When she wakes later that morning, the sun is bright and she's surprised to see that it's nearly eleven. She checks her phone, but there are no messages and no missed calls. She hopes he and Sam are okay, and sends thought waves at Dean: _please call; please just call me_. Because damn her, she wants to be there for him.

* * *

"**When the wild life betrays me,  
And I'm too far from home.  
Will you be there to save me?  
****Will you shelter my heart 'till I'm strong?  
****Or will you just hang up the phone?  
****When the wild life betrays me…"  
**'**When the Wild Life Betrays Me,' Jimmy Buffett**

He never expected his next call to her to be like this. After Sam has done the job—killed Madison—he stays in the living room and cries his eyes out. And Dean is left to wonder where the hell everything went wrong. It seems pretty obvious: he should've never played along with Sam's stupid request. Just do the job and be done with it. But since he pulled Sam into his quest for the Demon, a lot of gray area has taken the place of his black and white world. Especially after hunting with Gordon. Dean shakes his head; he doesn't want to end up like that man—so angry he can't see the forest for the trees. He has been trying hard to make the distinction between supernatural and evil, but it's hard. For so many years he's put his conscience on hold, and he gets the feeling that sometimes his brother sees him as one cold-hearted bastard. It's not that he doesn't wrestle with right and wrong, but when he's working a job he looks at everything in an objective way. It's difficult, and sometimes it sucks, but Dean knows there's time to second-guess after the job is done.

Then along comes Sam, and he's got this naïve sense of right and wrong, good and evil—something Dean's sure Sam's had all his life and was nurtured by his years in college. And Dammit, Dean can't just look at a problem objectively anymore. He begins to think of repercussions or alternate courses of action, and things become muddled. Which is what happened tonight. Sammy gave him those puppy-dog eyes and pleaded and Dean cracked; and it ended up being a thousand times worse than if Dean had forced them to do the smart thing. Sam would've hated Dean if he'd killed Madison, but that would've been better than having Sam broken in her living room after having to kill her himself.

He falls to the floor and leans against the counter, trying to keep quiet. Trying to get himself under control and figure out what to do next. He takes in a shaky breath, holds it as he counts to ten, then releases it slowly. He wipes his eyes and feels like a fool for letting his brother get put in this position. Dean pulls the phone out of his pocket and pushes the speed dial for Jo's number. Sam's still crying and he can't stop concentrating on it.

Her voice breaks into his mind. "Dean Winchester, you answer me _right now!_" Jo sounds worried. Why is she worried? He hasn't even been able to say anything yet.

"What the hell am I going to do?" He asks, and he's angry because he can't control his emotions and he's never been this weak in all his life. He tries to talk, but his throat closes on the words before they can escape. It's a helpless feeling, and Dean remembers now why he doesn't like emotions. But the tone of Jo's voice calms him and he explains what's going on. He doesn't mean to snap at her, but he's angry and frustrated. Jo tries to reason with him, but he doesn't want reason. He already knows the logic behind everything. He just wants…he needs a way to help Sam and he can't because he doesn't know how. If it was him, he'd drink himself to oblivion. He'd find another hunt—something evil that he was sure needed to be killed. Maybe even make a pass at a hot chick. What he did didn't really matter, as long as he could get his mind off of this for a little while. He's sick of Jo's reasoning and cuts her off angrily. "I don't need a damn morality lesson. I know what needs to be done. I'm not worried about my conscience."

She's quiet and he's suddenly afraid he's alone. Now what's he going to do? He can't help but think that he's the most self destructive person he knows. Give him enough time and he'll alienate everyone around him. He'd done it to Sammy when he'd left for college, he'd done it to Cassie, he was sure he'd just done it to Jo. Just like his father had done something to all those people who used to be 'like family.' Well, like father like son…Dean always wanted to be like his dad; now he feels he picked up all the bad habits and none of the good, and the thought makes him feel like a shit.

But then Jo speaks again. "Dean…Dean, I know." And her voice is so soft that he wants to tell her everything. He has to take another couple of deep breaths to steady himself because for a moment he remembers that his mother used that same tone. He wonders how long it would take to get to Duluth, but he knows he's got to find a way to help Sammy deal with this.

He tries to apologize, but the words get stuck again and he feels like less of a man for that, so he ends up rambling in an attempt to sum up what's been happening, and tries to make her understand that she can trust him—and Sam.

"Dean, what's going on now?" She asks.

"Nothing," he tells her, because everything is finished. The job is done—he's just cleaning up the mess. Then he wonders if she meant something else. Was she worried about Sam? Or him? How much _had_ she heard from her mother and other hunters?

"Where's Sam?" Jo asks, and he thinks she's reading his thoughts.

Dean crawls across the floor and peaks around the corner into the living room. Sam is still on the floor in there. He's quiet now, leaning on the couch and looking up through the window. Quiet is much easier for Dean to deal with than weepy. "He's still here. He's just shaken up." Dean is already developing a plan: clean up the mess, check out of the hotel, and disappear somewhere. "We've just got to get out of here, that's all."

"Where to?"

He hasn't gotten that far, and the question stumps him for a moment. He answers honestly, and asks if she can think of anything.

"The Golden Gate Bridge," She suggests.

Not the best way to forget about the werewolves. "Seen it." He tells her.

"The trolley system?"

Surely she's messing with him. "What am I, ninety years old?"

"Well, you do _act_ like a bitter, surly killjoy." She teases.

He smiles at that, and tells her about his short-term goal of going to Hollywood. He leaves out the part about Lindsey Lohan though, because that's highly inappropriate. And to be honest, she lost her appeal when she became a skanky alcoholic. If he wanted that he'd stop in the first bar he saw. Jo agrees that he and Sam could use some down time.

"I'm just tired of it all." Dammit, he meant for that to come out with a smirk—like he is tired of being on the road and just needs to recharge his batteries. Instead it comes out worn—almost haggard, if a voice can sound like that.

"Dean," She says seriously. "I know you're a hell of a ways from Duluth, but I'm here—I'll do what I can for you."

He wishes he could make her understand how grateful he is for her, but he knows he can't—at least not over the phone… Besides, she's become worried again; he can feel it in her voice. Dean doesn't want her to worry—he and Sam will be fine. So he answers her in a provocative tone, "Well, if that's the case…"

"Dean," She scolds him.

The smirk is erased from his lips. "I know," He matches her seriousness, hoping she understands that he's glad for her help. Damn! He needs to talk to her face to face—apologize for what happened between their dads, apologize for treating her so bad when all she wants to do is help him, maybe even set things right between them. But there's absolutely _no way_ he could do that right now, and he needs to check on Sam so they can get the hell out of here…

She asks him to call her, and he tells her he will—he would've called anyways—before he hangs up. He takes a deep breath, then gets to his feet and makes a lot of noise. "Come on Sam—we gotta jet." He says loudly before entering the living room.

Sam looks at him, his eyes still red from crying. "Where're we going?"

"South," Dean tells him. "Get up, now, let's go. Grab the gear."

"What about Madison?"

"I'll handle that."

"But—"

"Get the gear, Sammy." Dean commands him. "I'll clean up."

Sam leaves the living room, and Dean takes a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes at the door knobs, window sills, and counters. He's sure that they've left prints, but he's cleaned all the obvious places. Sam comes in a moment later, the duffle slung over his shoulder. Dean nods towards the door. "Go, man. I'm right behind you."

"What about the body?"

"I'm pretty sure someone heard the gunshot—we've gotta be gone before the police show up." Dean glances at his watch and realizes they've been here almost ten minutes. "We get to the hotel, pack up, and leave. Got it?"

"Yeah," Sam's out the door, and Dean's right behind him. He uses the handkerchief like a glove as he pulls the door mostly shut, then wipes at the door knob one last time.

When they make it to the hotel, Dean has Sam check out while he throws their two bags into the trunk beside the duffle. Dean picks up Sam, finds the I-5 freeway and turns south. Dean drives the speed limit the whole way, and they get stop for a few hours at a rest area in the middle of the night. Dean parks in the middle of the tractor trailer rigs and they catch a little sleep. They wake up when the truckers start their engines, and Dean maneuvers the Impala out from between the big rigs and over to the small building that houses the bathrooms. When he finishes in the bathroom he starts cleaning the trash from the car. It's not much—a couple straw wrappers and a few empty bags.

Sam comes back and grabs Dean's souvenir cup from Bob's Gas 'n Grill. "Can we toss this?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head, "I'm saving it."

"For what?" Sam wrinkles his brow.

"Just am." Dean takes the cup from Sam. He rinses it out in the bathroom and sets it in the on the floor behind his seat when he comes back. "You ready?" He asks Sam.

"Yeah," Sam yawns. "Where're we going?"

"Hollywood," Dean grins. "I hope to God they've got a Waffle House there."

"May have to make do with an IHOP." Sam says.

"That'll work—we'll stop at the first one we find." Dean gets in and starts the car. "We've only got an hour or so before we get there." He tells Sam. The morning sun is bright, and it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day.

They reach the city limits at seven thirty in the morning, and pull off the freeway to avoid the worst of the traffic. They don't go too far into town, and by eight thirty they're sitting in an IHOP and waiting for breakfast. They're almost done when Dean catches sight of a clock. "Crap," he grumbles to himself.

"What?" Sam asks.

"Nothing."

"Not nothing," Sam says with a small smile. "You look like you're trying to do math in your head."

Dean ignores him and catches the attention of a waitress passing by. "Could you tell me what time it is?"

The waitress glances at her watch. "Eight fifty-four."

"Thanks," he smiles and lets her go. Add two hours…that would make it ten fifty-four. Dean stands up and tells Sam, "Don't let them take my breakfast, I'll be right back."

"Where you going?"

"Nowhere—personal business."

"Another phone call?" Sam teases lightly, and Dean wonders again if he's figured it out.

He knows that Sam watches him walk out the front door, and Dean waits until he turns a corner before he fishes out his cell phone. He should call Jo so she knows where they are and that they're okay. He promised her he would, and he figures keeping that promise is the first step to becoming a good man.

* * *

Finisimo.

Feedback is appreciated.


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